Paul Cornell - London Falling

Quill took off his gloves, which felt a blessed relief. He reached out to the soil. His fingertips touched it-

Just as he suddenly realized that all the others should be shouting at him not to, warning that a giant and ridiculous potential had risen out of nothing in the very second he’d moved his fingers towards the soil-

And he registered that he did actually hear them shouting, in a sudden concerted yell of fear.

Something gave a snap, between Quill’s flesh and the soil. Something shorted out. And everything changed.

Quill immediately knew that something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. He looked to the others. They appeared to be wondering what they’d just been so worried about. ‘Did you say something?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Ross, ‘I just, kind of. .’

‘. . got worried about you doing that,’ said Costain hesitantly, as if he was suspicious of his own statement.

Quill looked around. Everything looked the same, except-

He’d suddenly thought how the walls looked different. Just for a moment, out of the corner of his eye. But, no, they were just the same. No, over there — was that a door? It was, with a handle and. .

No, it was just a shadow cast across the wall. Bloody hell, this was like the migraine or whatever that had mucked about with his vision in the interview room. He took a step back towards the trapdoor. And he realized that all the others had retreated a step that way too. He wanted to ask them if they could see anything funny, but there was plainly nothing the matter. ‘We’re way past our shift now,’ he announced. ‘We’re knackered and our eyes are playing up. Let’s get back to this in the morning.’ The others looked relieved, and there was a slight alacrity about how they went for the ladder. Quill was last to move. That shadow where he’d thought a door had been. . did he see something moving over there? Something small, like a cat?

No, there was nothing there.

He went over to the ladder and headed down into the main body of the house, where lights and other people waited. He kept his eye on the shadow as he went.

The other three found a car able to take them back to the Hill. Quill briefed DI Farrar, from the local nick, who was going to be supervising the crime scene overnight, then walked quickly out onto the street, past the huddled TV crews. He really was knackered, and his head was feeling weird. His head and his eyes. But he was too wound up to go home. Also he had some unfinished business. He hit a button on his phone and waited until the familiar voice answered.

‘Harry,’ he said, ‘you fancy a pint?’

He had a couple in the rough Irish pub at the end of the street, while Harry drove over from the Hill. It was a relief that his colleague was willing to come at all. There was a hurling match or something on the telly, torn-up seats and drinkers to match. Some of them looked as if they went home to the sort of rooms that were only one step up from sleeping rough, but still they obviously liked a real pub rather than some shebeen. Quill occupied a snug on his own. This lot would have heard about what was going on down the way, and he no doubt smelt of copper. Meanwhile, the shiny things in here were starting to hurt his eyes: washed glasses; whatever brass was displayed out of reach of grubby hands; the stone floor under the carpet polished smooth by generations of leather. Did he maybe need glasses? Would that not explain a lot?

But there, to his relief, was Harry. Quill stood up, and was surprised to see another man, an older man, enter behind Harry, close enough that they looked to be together. He looked very like Harry, actually: that same dourness round the eyes. Quill went to join him, and was pleased to see that familiar wry expression.

‘You’ve done all right tonight, haven’t you, Jimmy? Sodding serial killer, honey for tea.’

‘Can’t complain,’ said Quill. He looked to the older man. ‘And this is. .?’

‘Because you left the rest of us to do the donkey work on Goodfellow, don’t rub it in.’

Quill wondered if the older man wasn’t with Harry after all. ‘What are you having?’ He addressed the question so that both could answer.

‘Mine’s a pint,’ said Harry. There was silence from the other, who didn’t go to get one of his own, but just stood there beside Harry, now looking as quizzically at Quill, even as Quill was looking at him. Was this some homeless bloke who’d followed Harry in, and who Harry was now tactically ignoring?

Quill got the drinks in and headed back over to the snug with Harry. The older man came too, and sat down beside Harry. He was well dressed, elderly and looked as if he was retired. Didn’t have the face of a loony. In fact a bit out of place in here. The landlady, who looked to be the kind who might, hadn’t objected to him not buying anything to drink.

Quill waited for a moment for some cue from Harry, found none forthcoming, and looked between them. ‘So. .?’

‘He’s bloody enjoying this,’ said the older man to Harry, leaning over for a stage whisper into his ear, glancing at Quill as he did so. ‘Look at him. He’s called you all the way over here just to gloat.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Quill.

‘What?’ Harry looked startled.

‘Who’s your mate?’

Harry glanced over his shoulder, then back at Quill. And now he had a smile on his face. ‘Oh, have you finally got through to Lofthouse, and got me seconded to your lovely spin-off operation?’

‘That’s not what he means, son,’ said the man. ‘Don’t ask him about that. Don’t be so bloody weak .’

Quill couldn’t help it. After all, he’d had a long day. Maybe this bloke was old, but he was only going to grab him by the cardy and-

His hand went straight through. He fell forward, and had to catch himself on the table with his other hand. His arm was still, right now, sticking through the old man’s head. He could feel what it was like inside. It was very cold. The man eyed him mockingly. Quill snatched his hand back.

‘Here,’ said Harry, ‘how many have you had?’

Sefton had felt too strung out to sleep, so when he got back to the Hill, he went on into London. He weighed the risks: no, it wasn’t being part of a non-undercover operation now making him careless. The vast majority of those who’d known him in Toshack’s gang were behind bars, and any who weren’t wouldn’t be seen dead in the kind of place he was going. Just a couple of pints, though. His head felt weird: flashes in the corners of his eyes, sudden colours appearing in the darkness outside the tube train and gone before he got a good look at them. But, what he’d seen in that second. . nah, that was his brain making something up out of shapes.

He went into Soho, tried the Admiral Duncan, was put off by how loud and crowded it was. He found a smaller pub, still with blacked-out windows, which always made him roll his eyes. They should only have those on a copper pub catering for UCs. He wished there was someone he could share the sense of triumph with. In the car, Costain being Costain and the fact that Ross was preoccupied as always, had put paid to any thought of shared celebrations, though the driver had been congratulating them. Triumph. . and, yeah, something heavy got into your brain if you didn’t make jokes about it. Something else that made him silent and made him need to talk was that bloody cauldron. .

He had to stop and put a hand out to steady himself as he got a sudden mental image of. . real children inside it. . screaming. Oh, God, don’t let yourself go there, mate. He went up to the bar and got a pint.

‘Haven’t see you before. Where’re you from, then?’ The voice with the nice London accent, a bit south of the river, had come from behind him. He turned to see who it was, and found himself looking at a bloke with a straggly beard as if he was a hipster mountain man, in a suit as if he was something in PR, and with interesting eyes.